


Protectors of the (Puppet) King

by TheMalhamBird



Series: The Puppet King AU [1]
Category: 12th Century CE RPF, Richard II - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Depression, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 09:05:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19764997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMalhamBird/pseuds/TheMalhamBird
Summary: Bolingbroke is willing to allow his cousin to retain the title, if not the power, of King after arresting Richard at Flint Castle-- but Richard still commands some loyalty, and his bodyguards *like* their job. So they'll keep doing it anyway, even if they've technically been dismissed.





	Protectors of the (Puppet) King

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place in an a larger au I'm working on, based on the idea that Bolingbroke stops short of overthrowing King Richard in 1399, but still takes the reigns of power. The central fic for that universe is nowhere near completion and so not on Ao3 quite yet-- but if you're interested more content can be found at   
> themalhambird.tumblr.com/search/the puppet king.   
> Enjoy!

One of Henry Bolingbroke’s first acts as Lord Protector is to disband the Cheshire Archers. 

This does not bother the Cheshire Archers, particularly. So they’ve been told that looking after Dickon’s not their job anymore- so what- looking after Dickon was never a job in the first place. It’s a vocation, like being a priest, except with less frock wearing and more punching people in the face. Money might be an issue, except that the hot-tempered earl of Kent is just as protective of his baby brother as they are, and that nice Earl of Salisbury, too, seems quite literally _invested_ in keeping some semblance of a loyal militia around the place, and given the mob that greeted the King’s return to the city (sodding London, it’s not a patch on Chester) it’s not a bad idea. Matt and Dai found the bastard who dragged the King down from his horse, after, and gave him a few broken bones for his efforts- or a few dozen broken bones- bones were broken, is the point, but it’s not enough. Their King makes several appearances in public, pale and drawn- he flinches when Bolingbroke- the Lord Protector, as he calls himself now- King Richard flinches when Bolingbroke plants kisses of a mockery peace on his mouth, and the crowds cheer Bolingbroke, and jeer at their rightful King, and Matt and Dai can’t break every bone in the city, though they’d like to, and anyway it’s not like that really protects their King from anything. That snake Arundel has come slithering back to Canterbury, and he’s an Archbishop, you can’t shoot arrows at a priest, especially not at an _Archbishop_ but the point is- 

The point is, Dickon needs them , now more than ever- and none of them can get close enough to him to do their damn jobs. Oh, they’ve been taken in to Kent’s retinue, and Salisbury’s retinue, but Kent and Salisbury can’t get to the King either. Bolingbroke guards Dickon almost as jealously as they used to- more so, in fact. They used to let the King see his friends- Bolingbroke won’t. The King makes appearances at dinner, a distant figure at the top end of the hall, and he makes appearances at Mass, but he doesn’t shine like he used to, and the lads are all starting to worry. There are rumours flying about the place- there were always rumours, but then they were rumours like “the King’s taken to kissing his cousin, the dark haired, pretty one with the nice arms, he’s happier then I’ve seen him since Her Majesty, God rest her soul, left us”- now they’re rumours like “The Archbishop’s sentenced him to bread, water, and a hair shirt- and he hasn’t slept in a almost a month, and he fell off his horse yesterday- it’s Dickon, he doesn’t fall off horses-

Kent demands to see his brother, won’t take no for an answer, barges past the Lancaster twats on guard. Edgar slips in behind him, casually kicking the Lancaster twat on the right hand side in the ankle as he passes. He holds the door shut once they’re inside, stopping Kent being dragged back out again, but lets Dickon have the moment with his brother. Kent crawls up on to the bed and hugs Dickon roughly, cradling him and kissing the top of Dickon’s head. “I’ll kill him,” Kent hisses, “I’ll fucking kill him, just say the word-”

“For what?” Dickon mumbles, pressing his head against Kent’s chest. “I’m tired, Jack, I’m tired of fighting-”

“Don’t call me Jack, pipsqueak” Kent retorts half-heartedly, as though going through the motions of some old, long forgotten argument. He ruffles Dickon’s hair and holds him, closing his eyes. He stays until the King’s breathing evens out, becomes deeper- then extracts himself, kisses his brother on his the cheek, pulls a blanket over him, and leaves him to sleep. He strides down the corridor, keeps striding around the place until he’s found Bolingbroke, and promptly throws his glove in the Lord Protector’s face.

“Pick it up,” he snarls. “Pick it up, you whoreson-”

Bolingbroke does not pick it up. Ed amuses every single tavern in Eastcheap with imitations of the Lord Protector’s constipated expression while explaining that it would be beneath him, the King’s cousin, to meet the king’s own brother in a duel.

Christmas comes and goes, Epiphany rolls around and rolls away again. Dickon stops appearing at dinner, stops going to Mass. Rumour says he won’t get out of bed, not even to take communion from the Archbishop- they say he’s turned his face to the wall and is determined to die of melancholy- at least according to Wat and Tom, who’ve taken advantage of their unmemorable faces to install themselves in the Lord Protector’s guard: the best place to spy on him from, given that Bolingbroke’s never glanced at them twice. Dickon would have glanced- Dickon flirted, on occasion, albeit when he was very drunk. Very, Very, Very drunk, and angling for a swat from Queen Anne, God Bless Her. Dickon won’t get out of bed, and Bolingbroke’s fuming, and the Archbishop’s threatening to have the idleness whipped out of him, because they don’t know how to manage Dickon when he gets like this. Queen Anne did, and Neddy York would know, if anyone bothered to ask him, but he’s shut up in King’s Langley so that he can’t get himself in to trouble. 

And they know, the Cheshire Archers, because looking after Dickon is their vocation not their job, the problem is getting close enough to do it. It’s Alan who hits on the solution, he’s always been a bit of a madcap, has Al, and scaling the walls isn’t nearly as dangerous as trying to flirt with Joan Fitzallen just because someone bet you a fistful of groats and ha’ pennies that you wouldn’t _dare._ So it’s Al who clambers in through window, and finds the king retching on the floor, strings of bitter, yellow bile pooling in to a dip in the flagstones. “Enough, sirrah, enough my lord,” Al chastises, hurrying over to him and taking him by the shoulders, pulling him in to his side and gently wiping the king’s mouth with his calloused hand. “What a state you’ve gotten yourself in to, hey, hush now,” he soothes, stroking Dickon’s hair, and if he accidentally wipes bile off in to it, Dickon doesn’t seem to mind, which just goes to show that they’re balls deep in shit. 

“Alan,” Dickon mumbles, “It is Alan, is it not?”

“Aye, my lord, ‘tis my name.” his wrinkles his nose. “God in heaven man, you need to wash. Is there water here? Soap? Let’s clean you up a bit, look you, you’ll feel better for it.” A bit of care, a bit of gentle no-nonsensing, a bit of soap and water. It doesn’t fix things, but it makes them a bit easier to fix. 

“They’re going to kill me,” Dickon mumbles, as he raises his arms to let Alan draw the shirt over his head. “They’re going to hold me down and impale me on a spit like my great-grandsire-”

“They’ll do no such thing, my Lord, not with us all still about- you might not see us, Majesty, but we’re there- we promised you, didn’t we mate- you can sleep easy while we’re keeping watch.” Being rinsed down with cold water probably isn’t anywhere near as relaxing as one of Dickon’s famous baths would be, but it does its job; the King smells slightly better, and Alan finds him a fresh shirt to put on. There are scabs and scars on his body that weren’ t there before, but angered as he is, Alan doesn’t remark on them. Their King is vain, always has been- if Alan looked like him, he’d be vain too; their King is also proud, and as like to be angered by pity as pleased by it, and Alan’s never had the knack of telling when’s when. So he says nothing and helps Dickon on with his shirt, and sits him down on the chair by the fire, and fetches a blanket, and wraps it around him so he won’t get cold. “You’re alive,” he says, sinking to one knee and taking the King by the arms, giving him a slight shake. “You’re still King, even if it is just the title. Its’ a damn sight better place than we feared we might be at, when Bolingbroke came back uninvited.” Richard stares at him, pale and drawn and trembling. 

“You should leave,” he says, “You’ll only get in to trouble, if you stay, I’ll only get you killed. I get everyone killed, you know.”

“Not me,” Alan says confidently. “I’m immortal I am. I flirted with Joan Fitzallen and live to tell the tale.”

Richard stares at him, eyes going round with incomprehension. “In Christ’s name, why would you _want_ to flirt with her?” he asks; Alan grins, and recounts the tale. He doesn’t get the usual laughs, but he raises a few smiles, and that’s enough, for now. After he finishes, he offers to tuck the King back up in to bed. Dickon shakes his head.

“I think I’ll just…sit for a bit,” he murmurs. “Thank you, Alan.”

“Welcome, my lord.” Alan says, presses a kiss to the King’s forehead, and leaves the way he came. 

They hear, afterwards, that when Arundel next went to say mass and take the King’s confession his Majesty refused to see him, barricaded the room and would not give entry to any man save the Bishop of Carlisle.

Bolingbroke sent for Carlisle. 


End file.
